Life on Lockdown
by Mandelene
Summary: Being a prison doctor isn't exactly considered a dream job, and yet, someone has to do it. Arthur thinks he's seen it all until an eighteen-year-old with a goofy smile and strange past winds up in his hands. Now, he must do something he hasn't done in a long time—care.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:** So I asked you guys what request you wanted to see filled first, and there was a tie. I tossed a coin and this story got picked. I hope you guys enjoy the first chapter and leave a review letting me know what you think! It's likely going to be a three-shot. Many thanks to the anon on Tumblr who requested it!

* * *

The first thing most people ask when Arthur tells them that he's a prison doctor is, "Why? Why would you want to work in a prison?"

Every patient is just as much of a person as the next. Everyone feels pain. Everyone is fallible. Everyone has or had a family. Everyone has just as much of a right to life as everyone else.

So whenever he gets asked the inevitable question of why he does what he does during conversations with old colleagues at dinner parties—that's what he tells them. Needless to say, they don't like his answer very much, but people never do like hearing the truth.

There's nothing glamorous about what he does. Maybe that's why he attracts odd looks and is an occasional target for scorn. After all, he should be using his talents to better society—to help those who are truly suffering. He's not the heroic physician everyone wants to fantasize about. The mere association of being involved in such work is enough to keep people from inviting him to future dinners or to the bar for a drink. His job description is enough for others to assume that he is a criminal, too. If not in the legal sense, then certainly in a moral sense.

He, on the other hand, doesn't consider his patients as just being criminals. They are patients, like anyone else he has ever treated. He doesn't ask them what they've done wrong or act as the arbiter of justice because that isn't his job nor is it his business. He only asks what he needs to ask to provide an adequate treatment plan.

The follow-up question he receives usually is, "Don't you feel guilty treating murderers and thieves?"

And the answer to that is a simple no. Courts and their juries decide on appropriate punishments. Again, it isn't his job to be a judge and determine who deserves medical treatment and who doesn't. He's just a doctor, and the limit to his scope of power is quite pronounced.

He runs the small infirmary within the corrections facility that serves as half-hospital and half-clinic. The nearest actual hospital is over a two-hour drive away, and so, the prison is equipped with its own medical resources.

Equipped is an overstatement, actually.

They're underfunded at best, and the staff is far too small to accommodate one thousand inmates. There are just five nurses, one other M.D., and two PAs (Physician Assistants) to help provide care. Anyone who is seriously ill gets transferred to the state hospital and has to endure that two-hour drive and hope their heart doesn't stop before they get there.

In short, the entire system is a disaster waiting to happen, and Arthur knows this.

He just didn't expect things to implode this way.

It starts on a dreary afternoon in the clinic. He's tending to a familiar face in the exam room—one of the inmates that keeps withdrawing due to his relentless opioid dependency. Unfortunately, there isn't much Arthur can do for the countless addicts in the facility—this isn't a rehabilitation center, and so, all he can manage is to give them medication to offset the withdrawal symptoms—not that it will do much good because they'll simply be back the next day for more methadone, and then the next, and the next, and the next, until one addiction turns into another one by a different name, and they're right back to where they started.

Midway through his conversation with this man, one of the corrections officers comes bursting in through the door and says, "Sorry to interrupt, but you're needed in one of the cells, doc. It's an emergency."

Another officer arrives to escort him to the scene, so Arthur knows the drill by now and must drop everything that he's doing. He grabs his bag and follows the officer down the long hallway of cells and facilities, ignoring the inmates who bang on the walls and try to talk to him as he walks. He learned very early on while working here to distance himself and remain detached—showing too much empathy will only result in disappointment.

The corrections officer abruptly comes to a stop, and Arthur almost runs into his back. He turns his head to look at the cell they're standing beside, and he's left temporarily stunned when he sees a young man with strikingly blue eyes blink at him tiredly. His face is devoid of any color, there's sweat dripping down from his forehead and down his neck, and he's breathing quick, shallow breaths. He's lying on the floor of his cell like a dying fish that's been spat out of the ocean and onto the shore.

The corrections officer unlocks the cell, puts the prisoner's wrists in plastic restraints, and then steps aside. "He's all yours. He collapsed a few moments ago."

Arthur clears his throat, straightens his dark green scrub top (he's also learned that his patients don't take kindly to seeing doctors in white coats), and drops his gaze to the patient. "Good day, I'm Dr. Arthur Kirkland. I don't believe we've met before," he says as he crouches down to be at eye level with him. He puts on a clean pair of gloves, brings two fingers up to the young man's neck to check his pulse, and finds that his heartrate is through the roof.

"A-Alfred…That's my name," the young man rasps, choking on his breath. "P-Please, help me. I don't want to die. I don't want to be here...Don't let me die like this, I'll do anything."

This young man is hardly a man at all upon second glance. The features of his face are boyish.

Arthur keeps his well-rehearsed, cool demeanor in place and asks, "How old are you, Alfred?"

"Eighteen. Please, help me."

Arthur frowns, and for the first time in months, he feels a pang of _something_ in his chest—an emotion he can't attach a descriptor to. This might just be his youngest patient yet.

"I'll do everything I can," he tells the boy before glancing over at the corrections officer and asking, "Can you help me move him to the bed? I can't examine him like this."

And that's his first lie of the day. He could examine Alfred right here on the floor if he wanted to, but seeing the teenager debilitated on the unsanitary tiles of his cell has rubbed him the wrong way.

The officer grabs Alfred by one arm, and Arthur lifts him up by the other. Fortunately, it looks like Alfred can walk at least somewhat because he's able to drag his feet along as he's moved.

Once the boy is properly lying down, Arthur takes another long look at him and asks, "Do you remember what happened right before you collapsed?"

Alfred scratches his stomach absently and says, "My head hurt real bad, and I thought I was going to puke, so I got up to call someone, but everything went fuzzy and my legs got weak."

Arthur nods his head and goes about taking the boy's blood pressure and temperature. Meanwhile, Alfred doesn't dare to even budge or let out a peep, clearly terrified by the position he's in.

Fantastic—a little fear can make a patient compliant enough to make Arthur's job just that much easier.

"High BP and a hundred-and-three-degree fever," Arthur says to himself when the readings are done, making note of them on a chart. Then, without preamble, he pulls up Alfred's shirt is about to put his stethoscope on his chest when something alarming catches his eye.

The boy's abdomen is _coated_ in purple and red splotches, all varied in size.

Septicemia? But how—?

"Uhh, that's not normal, is it?" Alfred asks, concerned.

"Sit up for a moment," Arthur orders, helping the boy up before yanking up his orange shirt again to have a look at his back, and sure enough, his back is covered in the rash as well.

"Fuck. Is that contagious?" the corrections officer asks, taking a step back.

But Arthur's head is swimming with too many thoughts to even hear the question. This is going to be trouble. They're going to have to be quarantined. They cannot allow this to spread or—

"What's wrong with me?" Alfred asks, rubbing his neck.

Stiff neck, another telltale symptom. This is awful…Unthinkable…Who knows how many people have been exposed? What if this didn't start with Alfred?

"He needs to be put in isolation in the infirmary," Arthur finally announces, snapping out of his thoughts.

"Why? What is it?" the corrections officer continues interrogating him as he takes yet another cautious step back.

"I think it's meningitis."

"Fuck."

"Yes, 'fuck' is an appropriate term to use in this context," Arthur tells the corrections officer darkly, staring down at a mortified Alfred.

"Am I gonna die? Please, do something…Oh, God. I can't breathe," Alfred panics, breaths growing more erratic as his hand jolts up to grab at his neck.

They have to hurry or this boy will be beyond help. "He needs to be put on an IV drip and supplemental oxygen," Arthur urges, already making his way out to the hall to contact the staff that'll be needed to transport Alfred. "Someone get me a stretcher!"

And because the nearest hospital is over two hours away, there's no conceivable way for them to transfer Alfred there without risking him getting permanent brain damage in the process. Bacterial meningitis is aggressive. It needs to be treated right away, especially since Alfred is already showing signs of blood poisoning. He might not make it to the hospital before his body starts shutting down, and even if he does, by the time he gets actual treatment, he may be in a great deal of trouble. Therefore, he's stuck with their meager resources here at the prison.

"I don't want to die," Alfred keeps wailing, thrashing from side-to-side in his cot while his voice becomes raspier with each additional plea.

"Shh," Arthur tells him, pressing a gloved hand against his shoulder to still him. He doesn't dare to look him in the eyes again. Instead, he stares at the opposite wall until a stretcher is finally rolled in by Ivan, one of the RNs on site.

Ivan fits the stereotypical description of a prison nurse—tall, robust, and the type of person one would never want to cross. He's a large Russian man with a broad chest and menacing stature, but his pale eyes, silvery blond hair, and purple scrubs offset his more intimidating features. Arthur has worked with the man for a long time, and so he knows that the terrifying first impression Ivan usually leaves on patients is actually beneficial to him in most circumstances. He never has to worry about being threatened or attacked by a noncompliant patient—no one would dare to stand up to him.

He's also an excellent asset to the infirmary in general, and he takes his work seriously, which Arthur appreciates. Many of his other colleagues don't nearly have as much going for them in terms of intellect and a sturdy work ethic.

Ivan adjusts the medical mask on his face and slips on a pair of gloves. When he sees Arthur stand at the foot of Alfred's bed and prepare to pick up his legs, he says, "I can lift him myself."

A second later, Alfred is being placed carefully on the stretcher, where he continues muttering to himself restlessly as tears fall from his eyes and coat his scarlet cheeks. It seems as though delirium has set in because when Arthur asks him to say something, he doesn't get a coherent response.

He and Ivan don't waste any more time bringing him into the isolation room in the infirmary. Fortunately, a delirious Alfred is apparently a more docile Alfred as well because he doesn't protest any of their ministrations. They're able to get him into a bed, and Ivan puts in his IV with relative ease. Arthur, meanwhile, is able to coax a nasal cannula into his nose to provide him with oxygen without fear of the boy lashing out. They draw his blood, get him started on fluids, give him a fever reducer, and pack him with cool compresses.

There's a debate between Arthur and some of the other medical staff as to whether or not they should start Alfred on antibiotics before confirming the diagnosis, and Arthur vehemently makes the case that the boy can't wait any longer or his condition will start rapidly deteriorating. If septicemia has already set in, they can't spare even thirty more minutes without putting Alfred at greater risk.

In the end, Arthur's argument wins, and Alfred, thankfully, gets started on treatment right away.

Their efforts aren't in vain because within an hour or so, Alfred is more aware of his surroundings again, and he's no longer shivering as violently as when they found him. He is, however, groggy, and when Arthur explains to him that he's going to have to conduct a lumbar puncture, otherwise known as a spinal tap, to confirm the diagnosis so they can make sure they're giving him the most effective antibiotics, Alfred nods his head and doesn't bother asking any questions. Either he's willing to put up with any kind of poking and prodding just to feel better, or he's so exhausted he doesn't care what's going to be done to him. Best to get the procedure done before he becomes even more severely ill.

"I'm going to have to insert a needle into your back to remove some fluid from your spine," Arthur says, trying to explain the procedure to him again in layman's terms. "It's going to be uncomfortable, but it will help us determine whether or not we need to modify our treatment plan later down the line. Is that all right?"

"Uh-huh," Alfred assures lazily, eyes half-open.

"Do you have any questions or concerns?"

Alfred shakes his head.

"Okay, in that case, we'll get started," Arthur continues, a frown tugging down at his lips. He turns to Ivan to signal that he should get all of their supplies ready, and then, he pulls back the blanket pooled at Alfred's waist and helps him out of his shirt.

Goosebumps crop up on Alfred's arms and chest when the cool air of the infirmary hits his bare skin, and he lets out a small whimper before submissively sinking against the bed again. He's too weak to sit up on his own for longer than a minute or so.

Arthur helps him turn over onto his side and softly instructs, "Bring your knees up just a bit…Good, now, lean forward and arch your back slightly…Stay in that position, all right?"

"Mmrgh," is Alfred's response.

He needs to be extremely careful now, or else he'll do Alfred more harm than good. Spinal taps aren't exactly complication-free or simple procedures. In fact, he could do a lot of damage if he doesn't position things just right. He's done this many times, and still, there's a twinge of fear in his gut every time he does it anyway.

"Ivan, keep him calm."

Ivan nods and sits on a rolling stool on the opposite side of Alfred's bed so that he's facing him while Arthur faces his back and tries to concentrate. Ivan grins a pearly grin at Alfred, and the boy smiles back, eyes brightening with light and mirth.

"Hello, there," Ivan chimes.

"Howdy," Alfred mumbles back. "What's your name?"

"Ivan."

"Got a last name?"

Ivan chuckles. "Braginski…Ivan Braginski."

"I'm Alfred."

"So I've heard."

"Are you a doctor, too?"

"No, I'm a nurse, which, arguably, is better than being a doctor," Ivan says before briefly directing a teasing smile in Arthur's direction. "We get the coveted purple scrubs."

"Oh…"

Arthur huffs and focuses his attention back on the task at hand. He first runs his fingers over Alfred's lower back, feeling his spine, and marks with a pen where he plans to insert the needle. Then, he puts on a sterile pair of gloves, sterilizes a circular patch of Alfred's back with iodine, drapes a sheet over the rest of his back, and gently warns, "I'm going to give you an injection of a local anesthetic first, Alfred. You're going to feel a little sting."

"Okay…Oww, oww, oww! _Not_ okay!" the boy howls as soon as Arthur gives him the shot, eyes watering. He's quite alert now, it would seem. "Damn it! You call that a _little_ sting? Jesus, Lord Almighty!"

"My apologies."

Right, so, the boy's pain tolerance isn't as high as he'd like others to believe it is. Arthur makes a mental note of that.

"Is he always this sarcastic?" Alfred asks, addressing Ivan.

Ivan's smirk is hard to miss. "Yes, always."

"Oh, God. I really am gonna die in this place, aren't I?"

Arthur clicks his tongue and wants to snap at both of them, but he doesn't want to get distracted either. He waits a couple of minutes for the medication to start numbing Alfred's back, and then says, "I'm going to insert the needle for the lumbar puncture now. You'll feel some pressure, but you need to stay _very_ still, all right?"

"All right," Alfred agrees a tad reluctantly, biting his lip. "Is it going to be another _little sting_?"

Cheeky brat.

"Just hold still and you'll be fine," Arthur replies, trying to remain as civil as possible. "Take a few deep breaths to calm yourself if you must."

Ivan holds the boy in place as a precaution, and finally, Arthur carefully pushes the needle slowly until it's about three inches deep. He removes the stylet accompanying the needle and clear fluid begins dripping from the end. He collects the fluid in a small tube, replaces the stylet, and pulls the needle out once he has a sufficient sample. The entire time, Alfred murmurs colorful swears under his breath to battle his anxiety and the pain.

Once the needle is out, Arthur presses a cotton ball to the puncture and covers it with a bandage, letting out a near-silent breath of relief himself.

"All right, Alfred, I've finished. I need you to lie flat on your back for a while now until we're certain there haven't been any complications," Arthur explains, and much to his satisfaction, Alfred follows his orders. "Ivan will be monitoring you closely, and I'll be back every hour. You need to let us know if you feel any worse."

Alfred wipes some sweat off of his brow and coughs before dipping his head down to show he understands.

And with that, Arthur turns to Ivan and reminds him, "No one goes into this room without a medical mask and gloves. Let's try to limit who comes into contact with him as much as possible. Only the staff assigned to his case should be coming in here."

They can allow themselves a small breather now that the initial treatment has been taken care of, but they can't let their guard down yet. Alfred's going to get worse before he starts showing signs of improvement, and meningitis can very well become fatal even at this point.

But Arthur doesn't plan on letting this boy die. He's going to make sure Alfred gets the care he needs so that he can sleep soundly at night. Besides, regardless of what this boy has done in the past to land himself here, he's still someone's child.

 _Every patient is just as much of a person as the next. Everyone feels pain. Everyone is fallible. Everyone has or had a family. Everyone has just as much of a right to life as everyone else._

He must remind himself of this constantly lest he forgets.


	2. Chapter 2

Pain. Lots of it.

Alfred's fairly sure his brain is suddenly too big for his skull, and there's a relentless pressure that keeps building and building. He wants to climb out of bed and break free from the sickly heat radiating from his bed and onto his arms, legs, and back, but all he can do is moan into the air above him.

The ice cube Ivan feeds through his cracked lips feels great against his dry tongue and hot gums at first, but then it makes him all too aware of how hot the rest of his body is that he somehow ends up feeling worse. His armpits are sticky, his neck hurts, and he's nauseous because it feels like his bed is rocking back and forth, even though it's not.

Doctor-What's-His-Face said he could expect to have "an altered mental state," and, at the time, he wasn't really sure what that meant. Now, he knows it explains why everything looks red around the edges, and why he feels like he could punch someone if he had the strength for it. He's turned into a dying animal—eyes wide with both fear and malcontent as he waits for the end. He doesn't want anyone to touch him or speak to him. He just wants to be left alone to slowly rot in this damp bed.

He swipes at Ivan's scrub top when the man tries to fix his nasal cannula—the damn thing keeps slipping out of his running nose, but Ivan restrains his hand and sets it back onto the bed with ease, unfazed.

"Calm down. Save your energy," Ivan whispers.

Ivan is cool—gloriously cold and lovely in every sense. His hands, his smile, his worried brow—all of it. Alfred just wants to hold him close and let his sweet frigidness seep into his bones and muscles, easing away the flames currently eating away at him.

"Love you," Alfred tells him affectionately, lost in the haze of his fever. His thoughts have become unfiltered, and holy cow, Ivan looks incredible when he's leaning over him like that.

Ivan smiles reassuringly at him and presses a freezing cold towel to his forehead. "I'm afraid I'm a little too old for you," he jokes dryly.

The world flips over and turns into a black cloud of vertigo. He pukes on himself and the bed. It's like lava running down his shirt and chest.

Ivan shoots him a worried look and holds a bedpan under his chin so he can puke some more. It's hot and gross, and it makes his throat boil. Great, Ivan's definitely going to find him attractive now.

As he's still coughing up bile, the doctor in the green scrubs comes back in…Arthur, that's his first name, right? Dropping the stuffy title makes him seem more human rather than some cold-hearted medical-cyborg.

"I'm going to give him some promethazine for the vomiting and pain. However, it's likely to make him woozy and disoriented," Arthur warns, inquisitive eyes roving over his frail body.

"I think he's already woozy, so it doesn't make much of a difference," Ivan replies, still holding the bedpan up to his chin.

He feels Arthur mess around with his IV, and then, there's a cool rushing sensation as a new medication gets pushed into his vein. When he looks down, all that's left is an empty syringe in Arthur's hand, which promptly gets replaced by another syringe filled with saline to flush out the line.

It leaves a funny taste in Alfred's mouth, and then, he's suddenly really sleepy. Ivan finally takes the bedpan away, and, slowly but surely, the pain in his head and neck starts dissipating.

"Angel," he whispers up at Arthur because it looks like he's got a halo above his head right about now, thanks to the bright lights in the ceiling. At the time, it seems like a totally okay thing to say.

"Sorry to disappoint, lad, but I'm not an angel," Arthur says airily, not making much of it. He pulls a penlight from one of his pockets and shines it into his left eye, which makes him even dizzier and more dazed.

"Can you tell my mom—tell her," Alfred croaks, wishing he could stay concentrated long enough to finish the ends of his sentences.

"You can tell her when you're well again," Arthur states, moving the light to his right eye now.

"Please, tell her I'm sorry."

"You can tell her yourself, lad. In a few days' time—"

"No, please. Tell her. I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

"How about we get you cleaned up?" Arthur suggests, ignoring the request and getting straight to business.

Ivan helps him sit up, and Arthur peels his vomit-covered shirt off. It gets replaced by one of the ugly teal gowns the infirmary keeps in stock—the ones with hideous polka dots that make him feel like he's supposed to be on display at the circus.

"Wait. He needs a sponge bath and the sheets need to be changed," Ivan cuts in, and Arthur temporarily slips the gown off his shoulders.

The medicine is making everything foggy. The whisperings between Ivan and Arthur remind him of staying up late with his brother, Matthew, and how they would have to be extra quiet or else Mom would yell.

"Where's Matt?" he suddenly asks, tongue lolling around in his mouth.

The question manages to shake both Ivan and Arthur out of their thoughts. They exchange a look with one another, and then, Ivan rubs a sudsy sponge over Alfred's chest and asks carefully, "Who is Matt?"

"My brother," Alfred rasps before breaking into a coughing fit.

"Easy now," Arthur urges, rolling him over onto his side so he can pat his back and calm his gasping.

He remembers it all now. He thought he taught himself to forget a long time ago, but the hand on his back makes everything hit him in full force again. That used to be his hand—his hand on Matt's back.

"Matt's in the hospital again?" he manages to ask.

"You're in the infirmary, remember? You're very sick with meningitis," Ivan explains, trying to clear some of the fog while drying his chest with a scratchy towel.

"Don't bother. He's confused," Arthur cuts in. "Let's hope it's from the medication I just gave him and not the illness itself. Fortunately, the vomiting has stopped."

"I'm not confused," Alfred insists, even though his tongue suddenly weighs two tons, and he can't dwell on one memory or thought for too long.

To his surprise, Arthur smirks at him. "Still well enough to be argumentative at least."

He gets dressed in the ugly gown again, and Arthur sits him up once more to have him get up for a few seconds while Ivan changes the soiled bedsheet with a new, clean one.

Man, what he wouldn't do for a shower right about now.

Then, he gets lowered back into bed like a ragdoll, and a blanket is pulled up to his waist.

When Arthur turns to leave and says, "I'll be back soon," Alfred reaches out a hand as if to hold him back and mumbles feverishly, "Don't go. Don't leave me here."

"You're in good hands. Ivan will be here. I need to find out how you contracted meningitis," is all Arthur says in response.

Alfred licks his chapped lips and wants to keep talking, but the medication keeps making everything fuzzy around the edges and has made his eyelids droop.

This must all be some sort of dream. After all, there's no way he deserves the kindness of these two strangers in reality. He's a prisoner—a faulty cog in society, and he hasn't done anything to warrant their concern and gentleness. Now, he has the nerve to ask Arthur to stay by him? He is a mistake, a pest, and a problem. Always someone's burden, even when Matt is around— _was_ around.

Was that all a dream, too? Sometimes he wonders if he imagined everything that happened back then.

His thoughts escape him, and as the medication pumping through his system travels farther, branching out from his veins, the world becomes soft and pain-free. Now, all he can feel is the immense exhaustion on his shoulders.

"Help…Stay," he mumbles senselessly as Ivan places a fresh cold pack on his forehead. "I can save him…Save Mattie."

"Rest. It's okay," Ivan says.

And his body listens because, a moment later, he is limp and fitfully asleep.

* * *

They have to scour the entire premises to ensure no one else is ill. These close quarters are a breeding ground for viruses and bacteria.

They can't afford a massive outbreak of meningitis because it's almost assured that their resources would be depleted and stretched to the limit, and so, one by one, the inmates are brought into the clinic for a mandatory physical exam and temperature check.

Arthur and the other staff have to work around the clock to get to everyone in a timely manner, and they're not allowed more than an occasional ten-minute pause to drink some water and take a bathroom break.

And when Arthur isn't helping out with checking over the other inmates, he's visiting Alfred, who has been practically comatose for around twelve hours now and hasn't made much progress in terms of recovery. Nonetheless, his condition is stable, which is all they can ask for at the moment.

In the end, they find about fifteen inmates displaying signs of illness, but blood tests and other lab work reveal that only two of them actually have meningitis. Neither of them, however, is the source of the disease. Rather, after some digging and further investigation, it's revealed that one of the corrections officers has been out sick for several days and has only just been hospitalized. Apparently, he is in critical condition, and Arthur is beside himself with fury at the fact that the prison was not notified about the nature of the man's illness sooner.

All of this could have been prevented if the office had merely informed them of the situation as soon as his sickness started taking a turn for the worse.

Fortunately, having just two additional ill inmates means this will be more than manageable. This could have been much, _much_ worse has they discovered it any later. Hundreds of inmates could have contracted it.

Simply put, they dodged a bullet this time.

Arthur goes home that night and tosses himself onto the couch with a giant sigh of relief. It seems like everything is going to be all right after all. He just needs to treat Alfred and the two other patients, and then they can take measures to ensure this never happens again.

In ten hours, his next shift is set to start, and so, he mentally orders himself to get at least six hours of sleep before then, which turns out to be difficult.

As he lies in bed and shuts his eyes, he is reminded of Alfred's pleas for help and his frightened gaze. There's something about the boy that makes him uncomfortable—uneasy, really.

He doesn't allow himself to have these thoughts often, but he suddenly can't help but wonder what Alfred is doing in prison in the first place. He mentioned his family and was adamant about getting to apologize to his mother. Does that have something to do with the answer?

 _Tell her I'm sorry._

How long is the boy's sentence? He's still a teenager. He has his entire life ahead of him, and it pains Arthur to think he may be behind bars for years, or potentially, for the rest of his young adult life.

He seems like a fine boy—not dangerous in the least…

No. That's not true. Everyone is capable of violence.

It's foolish of him to assume the boy is innocent. He doesn't know the full story, nor should he, and there's no use in dwelling on these silly musings any longer. He has other things to do—like sleep, for example.

Blue eyes haunt him until morning.

* * *

The boy is still asleep when Arthur comes in to do his rounds. He's on his side, head sliding off of his pillow and brows crinkled with pain. He looks better than he did yesterday, but it's far from the kind of improvement Arthur would've liked to see.

Gently, Arthur presses two fingers to the boy's wrist to check his pulse—still a bit elevated. Then, he places his stethoscope over his heart and listens to the accelerated thump, thump, thump that greets him.

"Ivan?" Alfred mumbles, rousing at the touch. He lets out a half-suppressed groan and rubs his bloodshot eyes, irritating them even further. "Oh...It's you."

"Yes, it's me—underwhelming, I know."

Alfred smirks at his droll self-mockery and roughly clears his throat before saying, "Hey, I'm still alive, so you've gotta be doing something right, huh?"

"It would seem so," Arthur agrees. He checks the boy's blood pressure next, and it's finally within a normal range. "How are you feeling?"

"Like shit."

"Well, I already know that, but do you feel any worse?"

"No, it's about the same—maybe kinda better."

"You're able to talk to me, so that's at least some improvement," Arthur notes, "and you don't seem to be delirious any longer."

"Yeah...Thanks, by the way."

"What for?"

Alfred shrugs his shoulders and sheepishly looks down at his blanket. "For not letting me die, I guess."

"Well, there's still time..." Arthur jokes darkly, allowing himself a crooked smile when he sees Alfred turn a shade paler. "I'm kidding, of course."

"You don't let up, do you? Isn't there some kind of rule that you can't say those types of things in front of a patient?"

"Nothing we do is conventional here. Joke as I may, you should truly consider yourself lucky to be alive," Arthur says, serious now. He takes Alfred's temperature with an ear thermometer and narrows his eyes at it when it beeps. "I may need to increase the dosage on your antibiotics."

"How much longer am I gonna be like this?"

"A few more days, at a minimum."

"But I'm going to be okay?"

"Most likely."

Alfred lets out a small sigh and rubs at his still aching neck. "You know, for a little while there, I was wondering what it would be like if I actually died. Everything would probably stay the same. No one would miss me, to be totally honest. Isn't that sad? Hah...Guess, there's nothing I can do about that now though."

"What about your family?" Arthur asks, even though he really shouldn't be letting himself get reeled into this conversation. Better to keep his distance, and yet...

"My mom kicked me out of her life as soon as she found out I got arrested, and my brother's dead."

"Oh…I'm sorry."

"Me, too," Alfred whispers, staring down at his IV. "He was sick for a long time—Mattie, I mean. I think he was sick more than he was ever healthy…It changed everything."

"I can imagine that must have been hard for everyone."

"Yeah," Alfred agrees, voice cracking. "His heart was failing. He was in the hospital for months, waiting for a donor…I, uhh, wanted to do it, but Mattie and my mom wouldn't let me. I just felt so helpless, you know? I wanted to do something to make things better. Mom had to sell the house just to pay for his medical bills, and she gave up everything she could for him, but it still wasn't enough."

Arthur swallows hard and tries to keep his expression neutral. He's running late and needs to check on his other patients, but his feet stay planted in place and refuse to move.

"So…I went to the jewelry store ten blocks away from where we lived, broke in at four in the morning, and stuffed a bunch of rings and necklaces into my backpack…Got caught, obviously, and it's not like it would've helped Mattie much anyway. Even if I had gotten away with it, it would've bought him just another month or two."

Alfred bites his lip and shakes his head at himself in disgust. "He died three weeks later. Instead of spending his last days with him, I was here, in this fucking shithole. Can you believe it? That's the last memory he had of me—as some kind of criminal. So it's okay if I die here. I've got nothing left to go back to after this anyway."

Arthur frowns and his mouth moves before he can stop it. "You have your whole life ahead of you, lad."

"Not when I have a felony on my record," Alfred scoffs.

 _This_ is the failure of the criminal justice system right before Arthur's very eyes. Why is it that a boy who acted out of desperation to save his brother will never be given another chance at life? Will never be accepted into college or given the opportunity to secure himself a decent job. Will never be trusted again. Will always have to work twice as hard to prove he's still valuable to society. Will always have to live with the constant reminders of what he did, even though he has paid enough for his mistakes.

He will never be able to simply be an eighteen-year-old boy again.

Arthur wants to say something reassuring or sympathetic, but every sentence that pops into his head sounds overly placating or optimistic. Alfred doesn't need to be told any comforting lies. He's clever enough to understand the position he's in.

So, instead, he puts a hand on the boy's shoulder and squeezes it firmly.

The silence that follows is so _loud_.

And then, when the air feels heavy enough to suffocate them both, Alfred lets out a gut-wrenching sob. He's clearly scared of what comes next, as he should be. Tears drip from his chin, and Arthur awkwardly stands by his bedside and watches him, not sure whether he should stay or go.

"I would've done anything for him," Alfred gasps out between hitching breaths.

"There's nothing you could have done…"

"You could have sent me away to some hospital to die, and I would have deserved it."

Arthur shakes his head this time. "No one deserves to be treated that way."

"I want to be a good person like you, Arthur. You don't care what people have done. You help them anyway.

It isn't true. He's not a good person. He's merely doing his job just like everyone else, and he wants Alfred to know this, but something tells him the boy won't listen.

"I messed up," Alfred groans, and his heart rate creeps higher. "I wish I could go back and fix it all."

"You need to relax."

The advice is of little use because a second later, Alfred is vomiting again, except this time, he manages to turn on his side and get sick on the floor rather than on himself.

Arthur clicks his tongue and decides the boy is in need of another round of promethazine. He's just about to go looking for Ivan when the man comes sauntering in with a handful of cold packs in his arms.

Ivan sees Alfred's head hanging over the edge of the bed and glowers. "He was fine when I checked on him an hour ago. What did you do?" he accuses Arthur, half-joking.

"It's a long story," Arthur huffs in response, going off to get that anti-nausea medication. That's all he can do for Alfred at the moment—numb his senses so that he doesn't have to suffer through his symptoms. If there were a magical cure for grief and loss, he would give him that as well, but sadly, that's not an option.

He is filled with an incessant need to help Alfred—to protect him in some way, but all he can do is cure him of his meningitis. Everything else is out of his control.

It's better than nothing, he supposes.

* * *

The recovery is slow, but Alfred reacts well to treatment. A few more days on a cocktail of antibiotics gets him back on his feet again. He's able to sit up and walk to the bathroom, and although his energy reserves have been sapped, and he's weak, the corrections officers decide he's well enough to go back to his cell. In fact, they wrench him out of the infirmary despite Arthur and Ivan's protests. It's been more than forty-eight hours since they put the boy on antibiotics, and thus, he shouldn't be contagious any longer.

That said, forcing him to go back to his daily routine so soon could very well lead to a relapse.

So Arthur isn't surprised in the least when a clammy and dizzy Alfred gets brought into one of his exam rooms in the clinic a day after being hastily discharged.

"Damned idiots," Arthur mutters when the officers who escorted the boy here are on the other side of the door to the exam room and, therefore, out of earshot. "I told them you still needed to rest and stay on IV fluids. They can never listen to reason, can they?"

And while Alfred would normally smirk or agree in some sort of way with Arthur's ranting, all he does this time is plop himself on the examination table and slump his shoulders, looking defeated.

Arthur concludes it must be because he's feeling unwell again, and so, he doesn't waste any time in taking the boy's vitals…Except, something's not right. He doesn't have a fever any longer, and although his blood pressure is low and he's mildly dehydrated, there seems to be something else that's causing Alfred to act like this.

Once again, that inexplicable feeling of protectiveness rises up in Arthur's chest.

"Is everything all right, Alfred?" he asks, taking in the boy's pale face and sunken eyes. He looks downright awful—a skeleton of who he should be. That, and he hasn't combed his hair or shaved in days. "And I'm not referring to the meningitis."

"Yeah..."

"You're doing a poor job at convincing me."

"It's nothing."

Arthur purses his lips but doesn't keep pushing for an answer. He already has it—or, at least, he thinks he does. This isn't the first time he's seen an inmate behave like this, and a lack of concern for one's appearance is a serious warning sign. "All right, then. I'm going to have Ivan come in to re-draw your blood."

At the mention of Ivan, Alfred perks up a bit and there's a flash of that boyish enthusiasm Arthur has had glimpses of over the past few days.

When Ivan comes in, Arthur moves aside and, out of curiosity, sticks around to watch the interaction between the two of them. He pretends to busy himself with something on the computer, which is what they use to store patient information now. When did he become this nosy? He should be ashamed of himself!

Ivan swabs the crook of Alfred's arm, and murmurs a warm warning of, "Just a little sting now."

Alfred lets out a laugh, and his cheeks become rosy. "Nothing can be worse than that spinal tap."

"No, I guess not. See? You're stronger now. A small needle is nothing."

"You don't realize how strong you are until you have no choice but to be strong," Alfred mutters, watching with interest as his blood flows into the collection tube.

Then, suddenly, he grabs ahold of the butterfly needle in his vein, yanks it out, and jabs it into his forearm.

"Hey! What are you doing?" Ivan shouts, wrestling the needle out of Alfred's grasp. "Stop that!"

An officer bursts in to see what the trouble is, ready to restrain Alfred if need be, but Arthur quickly spins around and holds him at bay.

"We have it under control!" Arthur insists, before opening a drawer and ripping open the packaging to some gauze, which he presses to Alfred's self-inflicted wound. The daft boy must have nicked one of his arteries because his arm is bleeding quite a bit. While he keeps pressure on the area, Ivan disposes of the butterfly needle and then uses his strength to hold Alfred still.

"What happened here?" the officer in the room asks in a booming tone.

"He moved while we were putting the needle in to draw his blood," Ivan lies without hesitation. "He's squeamish."

The officer seems to believe him because his tense shoulders relax and after another few seconds, he leaves the room.

Ivan and Arthur exchange wide-eyed stares with one another before they turn back to Alfred, who is dumbly gazing at the blood staining the white gauze that Arthur is still holding to his arm.

"Why did you do that?" Ivan hisses, keeping his voice low.

Alfred furrows his brows and says, "I-I don't know."

"What do you mean you don't know?" Ivan continues, furious.

"I'm out in two months."

"So you should be trying to stay in good health until then," Ivan reasons.

"I thought it would help me think about something else."

"Something else?"

Arthur's frown just keeps getting deeper and deeper as he listens, until finally, he cuts in with "We're readmitting him into the infirmary, and you're going to be on one-to-one with him, Ivan."

"You think he's a danger to himself?" Ivan asks.

He studies Alfred for a long time—his disheveled hair, the crooked glasses sliding down his nose, his tired breathing…Why would someone be afraid of finishing their sentence and being able to go home? Is Alfred's life out of this facility really looking that grim that he feels the need to hurt himself and spiral into depression?

"Yes, I do," he sighs.

"We could transfer him to the state hospital for a psychiatric evaluation," Ivan suggests.

"No!" Alfred interjects, trembling. "Don't send me there, please. I-I won't try anything again. I promise."

"We're readmitting him for meningitis," Arthur says carefully, which is another half-truth on his part.

"And if he's still a danger to himself?"

"Ask me that question again in a few hours because I don't have an answer at the moment," Arthur admits, removing the gauze from Alfred's arm to see if the bleeding has stopped—it hasn't.

He needs to make sure Alfred gets out of here in one piece—that he can have some semblance of a life upon leaving and won't be drowning in self-deprecation and loathing. He won't let Alfred give up his life so carelessly like this. He needs to show him that there are still reasons for him to keep on living.

And damn it, he needs to know that someone cares.


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Note:** Those of you who follow me on Tumblr know how much difficulty I had with finishing this final chapter, but it's finally here! Thanks for sticking with me and for the continued support. You guys are the best!

* * *

"Don't do this to yourself," Ivan says once Alfred is admitted into the infirmary again. It's not a plea, it's an order.

And maybe there's a hint of disappointment in his voice, as if he expected better from Alfred. Maybe he thinks he's weak for giving up on himself. He gave up the day Matthew first collapsed during gym class and was diagnosed with heart failure. He gave up when his mother couldn't find a way to keep them afloat on a sinking ship.

What else was there to do?

"There's no point," he tells Ivan before rolling over on his stomach and burying his face in his pillow. He doesn't care if he sounds childish.

"Yes, there is. You just don't know it yet."

"Save the motivational speech for someone else," Alfred snaps without turning to look at Ivan. He regrets saying it, but he's too prideful to apologize.

Ivan frowns at him and holds out his hands in defeat because he must know there's no use in arguing.

Why does he always have to make enemies of the people who try to help him? It's a habit he can't shake. He's afraid that if anyone gets too close to him, they'll get burned. All he does is bring bad luck and grief.

He knows that Ivan and—although the man would never say it to him outright—Arthur mean well. It's part of their job to tell him there's hope for him, but they haven't been in his place. They will always be on the outside looking in, no matter how hard they try to empathize. They didn't have to watch their families slowly unravel. Didn't have to stay up all night wondering if their brother would make it through another day and come home from the hospital. Didn't have to see the looks of pity the neighborhood would give him when he would walk home alone from school, only to cross the threshold of an empty house because his mother was in the ICU with Mattie again.

One Christmas, the family across the street left a box with a new pair of snow-boots and a winter coat on the doorstep because they'd noticed Alfred's were falling apart. He should have been happy and grateful, but all he could do is slam the box against his bedroom wall and cry.

He was the troubled boy with a dying brother. The troubled boy who turned into a criminal. A shame. A pity. Not everyone is strong enough to cope with tragedy, they'll say, because no one gets it until it happens to them.

* * *

Ivan is distant after his outburst—not physically, but every other way. Maybe it's for the best. No good can come out of making friends with an inmate.

Arthur, on the other hand, has a watchful eye on his every move, failing to keep up his ruse of indifference. Alfred knows he should be flattered that the physician cares enough to want to see him stay alive and grow old someplace outside of these prison walls, and yet, he also finds the will to be annoyed because it's _his_ life, and he should get to decide what to do with it.

He spends a week in the infirmary by the time all is said and done. Despite being deemed meningitis-free, he still feels sick. Not sick as in having a fever, but sick as in not wanting to get up out of bed and refusing to eat.

Some days are better than others. Some days, it's as though everything has gone back to the way it was before. Other days, walking across his cell to wash his face is a chore.

That's how life goes on after he's released from the infirmary and Arthur and Ivan fail to pull him out of his depressive state. An unfortunate consequence of his little self-harm attempt is that he's now thought of as being a hazard to himself, which means, much to his chagrin, that the guards watch him more closely.

His possessions have been raided, and although he wasn't allowed access to sharp objects even before he lashed out in the clinic, his cell has been thoroughly "safety-ensured," so it's even more barren and devoid of paraphernalia than ever.

Slowly, he thinks he will forget about Ivan and Arthur, but that doesn't turn out to be the case. They were the only people he ever really talked to in this entire facility, and he misses their banter and how they always spoke to him like regular guys…almost like friends, if he entertains the thought long enough.

One afternoon, things turn sour again.

Another inmate provokes him during lunch—makes some lewd joke about his mother—and though Alfred would normally glare and shrug it off, he lets the anger overtake his fragile mental state this time. Everything bubbles up at once, and he roughly shoves the guy who made the comment—a man who is at least 10 years his senior. Unsurprisingly, Alfred loses the standoff and earns himself a split lip, a bleeding nose, and a black eye.

The corrections officers at the cafeteria separate them, write up an extensive report of the incident, which will no doubt lead to some sort of punishment down the line, and then send him off to the clinic for treatment.

He sits on a squishy exam table, twiddling his thumbs, and wonders how he's going to explain all of this to Ivan or Arthur if one of them walks in. Maybe neither of them are in today, and he'll be seen by someone else.

No such luck, of course.

Arthur comes in first, and in the span of 2.5 seconds, he manages to scan Alfred's face, frown, purse his lips, and stick a cotton ball into each of his nostrils to stop the steady flow of blood gushing from them.

"How did this happen?" Arthur asks sternly, and Alfred feels like he's in elementary school again, getting scolded by a teacher.

"Picked a fight with the wrong guy and lost."

"Yes, clearly," Arthur huffs, inspecting his swelling eye before handing him an icepack. "What possessed you to start a fight?"

"I didn't start it...Well, kinda—it's complicated, all right?"

Arthur mumbles something under his breath and then presses a finger to the cut on his lip. "Let's hope this doesn't get infected."

Alfred tries his best not to complain or yelp when Arthur dabs at his lip with hydrogen peroxide and then slathers it with antibacterial ointment. Turns out he's a difficult patient even when he's trying not to be.

"You've fractured your nose."

"You mean that guy fractured it."

"Don't try to play the victim now. You shouldn't have put yourself in such a situation in the first place."

"Yeah, yeah...Are you gonna send Ivan in to yell at me, too?" Alfred asks, trying to sound casual and cool even though he's ninety-nine percent sure Arthur can sense how eager he is to hear about Ivan's whereabouts.

"Perhaps later. He has his hands full at the moment, so you're just going to have to settle for me...Tilt your head back so I can have a better look," Arthur instructs, momentarily plucking the cotton balls out of his nose to survey the damage. "This will hurt tomorrow."

"Nothing new, I guess."

"I'm going to help you," Arthur adds, and the sentence rolls off his tongue like it's an afterthought.

"There's no one else I would trust to put my nose back together again, dude."

"Not just the nose—I was referring to more than that."

"All right, you've lost me again. It must be the British-ness or something that's getting me confused."

Arthur _almost_ takes the bait and goes into a rant about how "the Queen's English" is superior and that Americans don't have the right to call themselves an English speaking population, but then he takes a sharp breath and manages to hold his tongue. Frankly, Alfred is disappointed. After the crappy day he's had so far, he thought he would at least get the opportunity to see Arthur blow a fuse—the man is hilarious when he's angry, and thus, Alfred can't help but poke fun at him every once in a while.

"If I promise to help you find a place to live and a job after your sentence ends in—how much longer is it now? A few more weeks? Regardless, if I do that, would you be willing to accept the offer and promise you would try to get back on your feet again?"

Alfred isn't sure he believes what he's hearing. "That's...That's such a nice offer, really, but I couldn't ask you to do that for me."

"You don't have to ask. I want to do it of my own volition."

"Still, I wouldn't be comfortable letting you do that for me, Arthur—I mean—Dr. Kirkland, or whatever you want me to call you so that you know I'm not kidding around."

Arthur frowns as he rolls up some fresh gauze and puts it in Alfred's nostrils. "And why do you have to refuse my offer, if you don't mind me asking?"

Alfred winces as a twinge of pain radiates from his nose. "Because I'll just disappoint you, you know. I don't want you to go through the trouble of helping me out and then having it all go down the drain when I do something stupid again."

"Who says you're going to do something stupid?"

"That's just who I am. I'm not trustworthy."

Arthur shakes his head and gives Alfred a pat on the shoulder to signal that he's done patching him up for now. "I don't think that's true in the slightest. You don't give yourself enough credit."

"It _is_ true, though."

Arthur thinks for a moment, and then says, "All right, in that case, how about we make a deal? If you promise to get through these last few weeks of your sentence without stirring up any more trouble, I'll help you as I said I would, and you can do as I suggest for a month and see whether or not you think it's something that's sustainable for you in the long-term. If you don't feel like you'll be able to handle the work, or if it gets too overwhelming and you get the urge to do something foolish to cope with that, you don't have to stay at the position. All I ask is that you give my plan a chance. Agreed?"

It's an enticing offer, and Alfred knows he'd be an idiot not to take it, but his greatest fear is that all of this will crash and burn—that he won't be able to go and transition back into normal life and he'll somehow get Arthur to be extremely upset with him to the point where he'll hate him. Commitment and responsibility mean there's a chance for someone to get hurt in the process.

But it's the only hope he has for getting out of here and restarting his life. If he gets a job, he can maybe think about applying to school and getting a degree. Or, he can work his way up and just be able to support himself for the time being.

In that moment, right before he raises his eyes up to look directly at Arthur, he thinks about Mattie. He'd be so happy to see him make something out of himself after this entire mess. Mattie loved living so much but never got the chance to follow any of his dreams, while Alfred has always thrown his life away haphazardously. How selfish of him. How privileged. How awful. That's not the person he wants to be.

He doesn't want to walk out of this prison with a cloud of shame still hanging over his head. He will have served his time for what he did. It could be a clean slate now—not entirely clean, but as clean as it's going to get.

Mattie would want this for him. Mattie would take Arthur's offer in a heartbeat—wouldn't even blink an eye.

"Okay," Alfred says, locking in his final decision.

And for the first time in a long time, he feels as though there's some good left in this world—some excitement still to be felt out of life.

* * *

Once again, Arthur has to bend the truth and pull some strings to live up to his promises, and he has to hope all of this stretching won't come back to ruin him.

He's not an expert in human resources and job hunting, and so, figuring out the kinds of offers that are out there for people like Alfred isn't simple by any means. However, he does know some people who _are_ experts, and after some careful persuasion and a bit of finesse-ing, he's able to secure Alfred a desk job at an office—just some computer-work and administrative stuff—without the need for a formal interview. It's the best he can do.

Apartment searching, on the other hand, turns out to be an entirely different beast, and a much stronger one, at that. Apparently, people don't mind working beside someone who is a former felon, but having them as a neighbor is an entirely different tale. Nonetheless, he makes it work eventually, and he pays the cost of the first two months of Alfred's rent.

And while all of this is going on in Arthur's realm, Alfred has refrained from getting into any major trouble, but instead, keeps dropping into the clinic at least once a week with some new kind of imaginary illness that he's invented just to pay Ivan a visit. It's silly, but Arthur can't find the will to scold him for wasting their time and resources because the boy always seems brighter and happier every time he ambles in with a pretend cold or sore throat.

Whenever Alfred steps into one of their exam rooms, Arthur tracks down Ivan and mockingly tells him, "Your not-so-secret admirer is here to see you."

To which Ivan always replies with a forlorn "again?" followed by a groan.

"Yes, again."

Ivan must be at the very end of his patience because the next time he sees Alfred come in—this time with a feigned stomach ache—he confronts him.

Arthur knows better than to eavesdrop, but this is simply too interesting of a conversation to miss, and so, he listens from the other side of the door as Ivan lets out a frustrated breath and firmly tells Alfred, "This has to stop."

"What has to stop?" Alfred asks innocently.

"This...This pining over me!" Ivan snaps, and he must have kicked the exam table by accident or in his fury because Arthur can hear the unmistakable reverberation of a shoe colliding with metal. "I'm flattered that you like me, and you've taken an interest in me, Alfred, but you can't keep doing this."

Alfred awkwardly coughs and clears his throat before muttering, "Don't be angry."

"I'm not—," Ivan cuts himself off to take another heavy breath of air. "I'm sorry, Alfred, but I'm not interested."

"Is it because of my age? In a few years, it won't matter anymore, you know! I'll be twenty-something and you'll be thirty or so, and then it's not that bigguva deal."

"It's not that," Ivan assures, voice tight.

"Then is it something I said? Did I do something wrong?"

" _Nyet_ , you didn't do anything. It's...As cliché as this is going to sound, it's not you, it's me."

Alfred's tone becomes low with disappointment. "What do you mean?"

"I'm...I'm not interested in men, okay?"

The silence is painful, and Arthur regrets prying. He shouldn't be hearing this. It's not any of his business.

"Oh," Alfred mumbles after a long time. "I get it...I just figured...I messed up. I'm sorry...God, this just got a thousand times more awkward didn't it? Holy crap."

Ivan makes a sympathetic noise that shows he wants to be reassuring and sweep all of this under the rug, but before he can speak, Alfred is hopping off of the exam table and heading for the door.

Arthur has to jump out of the way and quickly retreat around the corner to keep from being spotted, and once Alfred is being escorted back to his cell, Ivan leaves the exam room as well and surprises Arthur by saying, "I know you're there, Kirkland. I thought you weren't a gossip, but I must have misread you."

Arthur sheepishly comes out of his hiding place and has the decency to look flushed and apologetic. He starts to say he's sorry, but Ivan waves a hand at him and tells him it's all right—they have work to get back to and shouldn't dwell on it.

"At least he won't be bothering us anymore," Ivan says, but Arthur can tell he takes no joy from the statement.

Alfred doesn't come back to the clinic for two weeks after that, and honestly, Arthur gets a little worried because he's not sure if no news is good news or if it means Alfred is wallowing in depression again as a result of all that's happened. Thankfully, he gets his answer soon enough because after not seeing the boy for an astounding seventeen days, he finally returns to the clinic, except this time, he has a real excuse—his right eye is bloodshot and has been itching for over a day.

"You didn't come to see me for over two weeks. I've been heartbroken," Arthur jokes mildly, but Alfred doesn't seem to find it very funny or even consoling. "Here, let me see your eye. Look up...Now down...And now straight ahead...I think it's safe to say you have conjunctivitis—pink eye. I'll get you some eye drops to take three times a day for the rest of the week. I'll also give you a warm compress to reduce the pain and swelling."

Talking about medicine and sickness is a whole lot easier than asking Alfred about how he's doing or bolstering his spirits after his bout of unrequited love. If only he could be as clear and helpful about life advice as he is when it comes to describing eye infections, but alas, he can't have an answer for everything.

Would it be a good idea to bring up Ivan? After all, Alfred doesn't know that he's well aware of their conversation from the other day. He could innocently propose that Ivan should come in for a bit, and maybe the two of them would be able to vent to one another and end things on a more optimistic note. Then again, since when did his job description start to include couple's counseling?

No, something tells him meddling in all of this will just make matters worse. Best to let it be and it'll work itself out somehow.

"I'm not ready, Arthur," Alfred mumbles, breaking him out of his thoughts.

"Not ready for what?"

"Living."

Arthur manages a chuckle. "I daresay you're not the only one."

* * *

It hits him like a truck.

One morning Alfred wakes up and suddenly he's a free man. That's it. He's an ordinary citizen again. Poof. No longer a criminal. Get out of here. Be human. Figure it out.

He gets his possessions back—the ones that were taken from him when he was first brought in. He gets to put on a pair of his old jeans and sticks his keys in his pocket (keys he no longer needs because his mother sold their house long ago). He also gets his black coat back—the one he wore all those months ago, but now when he puts it on, the sleeves are too short.

He knew this day would come, and yet, there's no way he could have prepared for it. He's allowed to walk outside again without handcuffs or a guard watching his back. He curls his toes up against the sneakers he has missed wearing and swallows a giant gulp of winter air. It's sweet and filling and makes him feel like he could fly. A new man—liberated and independent.

He's never appreciated the beauty in just taking a stroll. Walking on one's two feet and going someplace new and unknown suddenly seems so miraculous. He feels like he could walk across the entire United States like this—one step at a time with nothing to lose and no one to answer to.

But the walk will have to wait because Arthur is waiting for him, waiting to give him the keys to his new apartment, that is, and to give him instructions as to when he'll be starting work.

He's supposed to meet the physician at a coffee shop a few blocks away—the man's not working today—and for a sinking moment, Alfred isn't sure exactly where he is or where he's going. He's only ever been in the prison here and has never had the opportunity to scope out the rest of the town. The house where he used to live with his family is over an hour away from here, and so, this is, in many ways, still new territory to him.

After orienting himself a bit, he does, however, manage to find said coffee shop. He opens the door, pads his way inside, and realizes how cold he is now that the heat of the store meets his skin. He doesn't mind it though—the cold feels nice.

"Alfred, over here!"

He tears his eyes away from the customers on line and the other figures around him, oddly claustrophobic. Tucked on the left-hand side of the shop at a small table is Arthur, but to Alfred's horror, he isn't alone. Ivan is seated right next to him.

He swallows against the lump in his throat, takes a shaking breath, and slowly makes his way over to them, feeling completely out of place. For a split second, he actually _misses_ his cell. It was familiar and secure. This…This is the exact opposite.

He slides into the chair across from the two of them and folds his hands in his lap, feeling dumb and childish again. It's sort of like he's just learning to walk again.

Both Arthur and Ivan smile at him and greet him like nothing is out of the ordinary, and Alfred forces a smile and a nod back.

"Are you all right, so far?" Arthur asks him carefully as he drops Alfred's new keys on the table.

"Uhh, to be totally honest, I'm not sure yet."

"He's overwhelmed, Kirkland. It'll take him time to readjust," Ivan cuts in before shooting Alfred a grin. "I got something for you."

Alfred wipes his now sweating palms on his jeans and watches as Ivan rummages around for something in his bag. Is he the only one who can still feel a tension between them? Has Ivan moved on already and tried to normalize things?

"Here it is!" Ivan exclaims, revealing a red and blue checkered scarf.

Before Alfred can react or move, Ivan is wrapping the scarf around his neck like a worried mother, making that it's nice and snug.

Alfred feels himself turn scarlet, but mumbles, "Thanks."

"Do you like it?"

"Yeah, it's great."

Then, Alfred quickly averts his attention to Arthur because it's easier to face him than to face Ivan at the moment. "So, are you gonna come with me to show me to the apartment?"

"Yes, but not yet. I was thinking that maybe you'd want to celebrate first," Arthur suggests, taking a sip of his drink.

"Celebrate how?"

"Any way you'd like. Is there something you really want to do?"

Alfred thinks long and hard for an answer. There are plenty of things he wants to do—like listen to some good music, go to the park, catch up on all of the pop culture references he's been missing out on…But there is one thing that stands out above all the rest.

"I want to go for a drive," he says, bringing a hand up to touch the scarf Ivan gave him. It's soft, cozy, and protective. "It doesn't matter where."

Arthur and Ivan seem a little surprised by his answer, but they oblige. No more than five minutes later, they're all in Ivan's car.

Alfred calls shotgun and rolls down the window as low as it will go before sticking his head out into the rushing breeze as they start to move. He doesn't care that the wind makes his cheeks and nose go numb from the cold because he's never felt so alive. Perfectly and brilliantly alive on this planet—a little dot in an infinite universe. All of his mistakes seem so miniscule and meaningless now.

"Where do you want to go?" Ivan asks, speeding up a bit and making Alfred dizzy with euphoria.

Alfred allows himself a shining smile and shouts, "McDonalds! I want to eat burgers and fries until I feel sick."

Ivan laughs and Arthur scoffs, but his request doesn't meet any formal protest. They go blazing down the nearest highway for twenty minutes and get off at the first exit that seems like it might have a McDonalds, which is almost every exit, mind you.

By the time Alfred hops out of the car, he's still battling to contain his ecstasy, and he twirls around in place a good three or four times until his antsy limbs start to calm down a bit. He sprints to the entrance of the McDonalds and gets himself an order of large fries, a strawberry milkshake, and two giant burgers.

"Way better than prison food," he hums once he takes the first bite of his burger. He screws his eyes shut to better savor every single bite and flavor. He can't remember the last time he had a burger this good.

Ivan and Arthur watch him with amused gazes but don't say a word to deter him from satiating his ravenous appetite. Well, at one point, Arthur can't contain himself and does say, "You're going to need coronary bypass surgery after this, you know," but he doesn't say anything else after that.

Soon enough, Alfred is so full he feels like he's going to burst, but it's better than he could have ever imagined. He leans back in his seat, puts a hand over his now round belly, and sighs. "Thanks, guys. You do this for all of your patients?"

"Oddly enough, no," Ivan says, smiling. In fact, he hasn't stopped smiling since they got into the car.

And just like that, some of the ache that's been in Alfred's chest for the past few weeks starts to dissolve. "I hope…We can be friends—all of us. This is gonna be really lame and dorky, but you guys have been really awesome to me, and I appreciate it, and I don't want this to be goodbye forever or anything…You're the only people who cared to look out for me, and I know you guys will say you were just doing your jobs or whatever, but I'm pretty sure your jobs don't include taking your patients to McDonalds to stuff their faces, so you can't use that excuse anymore."

"I don't have friends," Arthur points out, "and I'd like to keep it that way."

Alfred frowns and takes the comment to heart, but Ivan just chortles and elbows the physician in the shoulder.

"But," Arthur continues a bit sullenly, "I suppose I can have a few acquaintances."

Alfred's smile returns in full force. Then, before he can second guess himself, he gets up out of his chair, and says, "Get over here and let me give you a hug—both of you."

Ivan accepts the hug without resistance, and that's when Alfred knows everything is going to be okay between them after all. Being friends is enough.

Meanwhile, Arthur crosses his arms and tells him to stop making a scene and drawing attention to them.

"Aww, come on, _one_ hug. I haven't been hugged in _forever_. Please?"

"Oh, for god's sake, all right," Arthur hisses, briefly ensnaring Alfred in a hug before letting go and casting him aside. "Happy?"

"Thrilled!"

Arthur rolls his eyes. "Finish your food so I can take you to your new apartment and get you out of my hair once and for all. Also, you start work next week, and I have a reputation to uphold, so you had better be on your best behavior. If you're a poor worker, it'll reflect poorly on me as well, so be mindful of that."

"Don't get your panties in a twist," Alfred teases him, and he knows that the whole _trying this arrangement out for a month_ thing is going to last longer than a month. He knows there's no backing out now. He's starting over, and he's going to try his hardest to make sure he takes full advantage of this second chance he's magically been granted thanks to the two men sitting before him.

And maybe, if everything works out, he'll even try to contact his mom and see if he can mend things. It's a long shot, and it's going to take time, but he's got to take that first step at some point.

"Now do you see what I have to put up with? The cheek!" Arthur complains to Ivan.

"That's just his way of saying he's grateful," Ivan reassures the man.

But Arthur doesn't stop there. He turns to Alfred and says, "I had better hear from you at least once a week, do you understand? I want to stay updated on how things are going, and I needn't remind you that I'm the one currently paying your rent, so I have a right to drop by and make sure everything is in order."

"Sure thing, you can visit whenever you'd like, Arthur."

"That said, I have a very busy schedule, so I can't be around to cater to your every whim, you do realize?" Arthur remarks, trying to backtrack and conceal his concern. "You're an adult, and you should be able to care for yourself without needing to be told what to do."

"Uh-huh, Roger that."

"Why are you looking at me like that?"

"Like what?"

"Like you think something's funny," Arthur fumes, and it takes all of Alfred's willpower not to burst out laughing.

It's just so funny to see Arthur fretting over him like a parent.

"Nothing, Arthur. I'm really happy because of everything you've done for me. That's all."

Arthur narrows his eyes and doesn't seem convinced, but he lets the matter rest anyway. "Very well. In that case, we should get moving."

"Okay, and guys? Do you mind if I get another milkshake for the road before we go?"

"Be my guest. If you're going to be sick, at least you'll be sick in Ivan's car and not in mine," Arthur jokes dryly.

"No, no more milkshakes," Ivan decides, glaring at Arthur. "You've had enough. It's time to cut you off and take you home."

Alfred smiles sweetly and clasps his hands behind his back, "Please?"

He stares Ivan down with wide, sad eyes, and finally, the Russian caves.

"Fine, but you're sitting in the back with Arthur so that if you really do get sick, you can get sick on him."

"Hey!" Arthur shouts indignantly.

Alfred orders one last strawberry milkshake with extra whipped cream, and when he steps outside again, his heart skips a beat. He thinks about all of the things he gets to do now—eat good food, go out with friends, watch TV for as long as he wants, meet new people, earn money at his job, visit a museum or a gallery, go to a concert, sing in the shower, dance in his bedroom when no one is watching, play guitar, paint some bad art, make himself breakfast in the morning—anything he can possibly think of.

It's not the end. It's far from it.

It really is a new beginning, and he didn't think a day like this would ever come. He thought his future was set in stone, but now he sees a future with himself in it. Sees a glimmer of hope. Imagines it for himself. It's out there, calling him. Almost like Matthew is somewhere in the distance, telling him to live life fully until his heart hurts and he doesn't have any more life left to give.

 _Live Alfred. You have just as much of a right to live as anyone else. You're still a person._

And so, he climbs back into Ivan's car with courage on his shoulders and excitement in his eyes, ready to find out what's waiting for him.


End file.
